


what a good man deserves

by Zilentdreamer



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-11
Packaged: 2020-03-01 06:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zilentdreamer/pseuds/Zilentdreamer
Summary: Cullen remembers the first time he met Hawke. He was hunting for missing Templar recruits and then there he was, this man with his wolf eyes and shaggy dark hair. Hawke was not a great man then, still years from his title of Champion and all the chaos he would one day bring to Kirkwall, the lightning rod that would bring change and destruction in equal measure.Yet still, there was something about him even then that made Cullen pause





	what a good man deserves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [YunaBlaze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/YunaBlaze/gifts).



Cullen remembers the first time he met Hawke. He was hunting for missing Templar recruits and then there he was, this man with his wolf eyes and shaggy dark hair. Hawke was not a great man then, still years from his title of Champion and all the chaos he would one day bring to Kirkwall, the lightning rod that would bring change and destruction in equal measure. 

Yet still, there was something about him even then that made Cullen pause. 

In his moments of fancy, between filling out endless reports and being drafted from one meeting to the next about supplies and where the newest recruits should be assigned, Cullen imagines he was doomed from that first moment. He’d taken one look at Hawke as he was then, a mercenary just beginning to carve a name for himself and felt time stop for one endless moment. Even with everything that came after; the two of them standing on either side of the coming war. Cullen’s nights filled with nightmares from Kinloch Hold and Hawke sucked further into the muck of Kirkwall’s politics with every well-intentioned deed.

He’d once stared at a stranger with the smile of a wolf and felt his breath catch. Cullen hadn’t stood a chance when the Champion of Kirkwall stepped out of the past with a sharp smile and a murmured question against the curve of his ear, his breath warm and oh so close.

*****

“We’re going to be late.”

Cullen doesn’t startle at the sound of Hawke’s voice, but it is a near thing. He levels a sharp look at the other man as he stalks into Cullen’s office, near silent steps carrying him closer to Cullen’s desk. It is not a surprise when he only receives an unrepentant grin and a warm look of approval that flicks from the top of his head to his ink-stained fingers.

“I have to finish this,” Cullen ends up saying, rolling his eyes. 

“There will be plenty of time to finish it later.” 

Cullen barely tugs the papers out of reach before Hawke can snag them. “When will this later be exactly?” Cullen asks.  He checks the nub of his quill before dipping it into the inkwell. “After I let myself get talked into another round of Wicked Grace, even knowing I’m going to regret it? Or will that be after we inevitably come back here and you insist on pawing at me and muttering about how cold it is.” 

“You really do need to get that roof repaired,” Hawke says, not bothering to deny the events that Cullen has laid out. “I thought Fenris was bad when he insisted on squatting in his old master’s mansion.”

Cullen glances up as he slides the signed document to the side.  “You mean the one that was still full of mutilated corpses? I’m afraid I see a drastic difference between a hold in the roof and sharing space with dead bodies.”

Hawke leans his hip against the edge of Cullen’s desk, arms crossed. Cullen knows he’s doing it on purpose, can already feel the flush working up the back of his neck as Hawke stares down at him in smug amusement, but he still can’t seem to force his gaze away from the strong lines of his forearms.  With a truly monumental effort he manages to look down and tries once more to remember what he wanted Rylens to do with the load of short swords they’d purchased.

“I notice you didn’t deny that both were problems, albeit one more than the other.”

Cullen snorts. “What kind of Ferelden are you that you can’t stand a little bit of cold?”

“The kind that prefers not to lose bits of himself to frostbite.” Hawke pushes off the desk and paces towards one of the bookshelves against the far wall.  Some of the books had been stacked on the floor once room ran out on the shelves. “It’s enough to make a man go looking for a warmer bed,” Hawke says with a laugh as he drags his fingers along the worn spines. 

Cullen’s flinch is a small thing, a mere tightening of lips and a brief spasm where his fingers hold the quill, but even so, Cullen is desperately grateful that Hawke has his back turned. To a man like Hawke, it would have been enough.

*****

As wondrous as it is to know that Hawke wants him, Cullen knows that it will not last. 

He is a small man, a weak man who was forced to face the truth of himself at Kinloch Hold and later in Kirkwall. Clutching at purpose as if that would save him, when all he manages to do is dig his fingers into the wounds of the world and make them worse. He would have murdered the surviving mage’s of Kinloch Hold given the chance. He still wakes from nightmares where the air was heavy with magic and demons cackled with the voices of his charges from the shadows. 

He was too weak to stop the mages from falling into corruption.  Too weak to die rather than risk the corruption taking him as well. Instead he clung to life in spite of the risks. 

Enough time has passed that he is grateful to have survived. But he does not turn a blind eye to the reason for it. Not courage or strength of will, but fear. Sharp and clutching, it had twisted through him until his breath had run ragged and his heart had slammed against the restraining curve of his ribs. Magic and fear kept him alive. 

He survives Kinloch Hold and carries all that fear and twisted purpose into Kirkwall. He was so blind, so stupid. He’d been proud to stand as a guardian against the danger of the mages, had let Meredith charm him with tainted words of duty and promise. Uldred all over again but this time Cullen hadn’t needed magic to turn him away from what was right. 

Not like Hawke. Strong and true in the face of every challenge the Maker placed before him. The man faced down Qunari and slaughtered dragons, proving with every deed that he was the Champion Kirkwall needed, but did not deserve. How many times had he tried to talk to Cullen, sharp eyes and sharper smiles the longer Cullen dismissed him? 

Cullen is not a good man.  He tries, but over and over the weakness that lives at his core continues to leave him faltering. He has abandoned his oaths and the lyrium that gave him the illusion of strength. Everyday he can feel the absence of both and it leaves him aching and hollow. The only solace he allows himself is the feel of Hawke in his arms, the weight of him pressing Cullen into the bed. Warm lips pressing against the line of his jaw in the morning when Hawke coaxes him from sleep, clever fingers teasing his grumbles into soft moans of surrender. 

He is not a good man, but Hawke is a great one.  Eventually he will see what Cullen truly is, a fearful thing pretending at strength, carved hollow by the absence of his sworn oaths and lyrium. It is for the best. 

And yet, Cullen cannot let go.  It will have to be Hawke who walks away and so Cullen tries and fails not to clutch at him. Over and over he bites back the pleas that weigh on his tongue and fill his throat until every breath is a struggle.   _ Please don’t go, I promise I will try to be better. Just let me prove it. _

Cullen does not know which is more frightening.  That Hawke will walk away without looking back, or if he gives Cullen the chance to prove himself and he still fails. 

*****

They are the last ones to arrive at the tavern. Varric waves them closer with an over-full tankard in one hand. “About time you showed up, Chuckles. Hawke, I can’t begin to tell you how relieved I am to see you wearing pants. There are boundaries that do not need to be crossed, my friend.”

Cullen’s face isn’t actually on fire, unfortunately. It just feels like it. “Next time try knocking.” He takes his usual seat at the table and does his best not to meet anyone’s eyes until he has his blush under control. It had been a delightful surprise when Hawke jumped him in his office and proceeded to push him down over his own desk. 

He supposes it could have been worse. Varric could have come in a few minutes later and gotten a much bigger eyeful. The whole situation had certainly made him far more sympathetic for the Inquisitor’s situation when he, Josephine, and Cassandra had walked in on her and Iron Bull. Not that the Iron Bull had been embarrassed. Instead the dratted man had been amused and even smug, the next time they’d come face to face. Unfortunately Cullen couldn’t look at Varric without hoping the ground would open up and swallow him. 

Even worse, Hawke hadn’t stopped. Not that Cullen had pushed him away…

“Care to share your thoughts, Commander?” Josephine leans in with a grin, her smile widening when Cullen instinctively eases his chair back. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your face quite that shade before. I have to say it is quite charming.”

Ignoring the familiar banter between Hawke and Varric happening to his right, Cullen steals one of the full tankards on the table and starts to gulp it down until it’s gone. “Thank you, I think.” 

“If you are done harassing him feel free to start dealing the cards.” Cassandra does not look away from glaring at Varric who, judging from the careful way he has not looked in her direction. He must still be in the middle of his current manuscript then. That was the only scenario that inspired that particular look on her face in recent days. “If you are done pretending to be a novice at this game?”

Josephine rolls her eyes and proceeds to make the cards dance between her fingers, quick flicks of her wrist and the soft shuffle-slide of the thick paper. As demeaning as his first attempt at Wicked Grace was with this particular group, at least he could take comfort in knowing he’d been fleeced by a true master. 

Cullen flicks a look towards Hawke to find him already looking back. The warmth in Hawke’s eyes makes Cullen’s chest feel tight, his heart giving a solid thump behind his ribs. It is going to hurt like fire, magic burning in his throat and pressing against his skin like a brand, when this ends. 

He pushes the thought away, smiles back at Hawke with everything he has. He’s learned to live in the moment, in those strange gaps of time when the symptoms of withdrawal fade enough that he can feel the echo of his old strength. Seize the moment, for it will not last. 

With Corypheus vanquished, banished to the Fade by the Inquisitor’s hand, the laughter that surrounds them is sweet. The game is a dance of cards between Josephine’s fingers and Sera’s cackling laughter as she leans against Blackwall’s shoulder. The Iron Bull pulls Lavellan into his lap and she goes with a laugh, scattering her hand of cards across the table to hook her hands around his horns. 

Dorian and Krem are deep enough into their cups that every word out of three is Tevene, and they might be singing, or trying to.

Hawke is a solid presence beside him, laughing and bickering with Varric until Cassandra threatens to throw them out. With her face red and several empty tankards in front of her, no one takes her too seriously. 

“So what now, Hawke? You gonna come back to Kirkwall with me?”

Cullen takes a long drink to hide his face as some of the joy in his evening slips away. It only makes sense. With Corypheus defeated their purpose has been fulfilled. It will be up to Lavellan to decide what happens to the Inquisition now. He wonders how many of them will drift away without Corypheus’ insanity to unite them. How much longer will he be able to hold onto Hawke before the Champion returns home? 

“How sure are you that the Hanged Man is even still standing?” Hawke asks. 

“Considering the amount of money I’ve been spending on its upkeep, it had better be standing or someone is going to owe me answers.” 

“I’ll admit it’s tempting.” Cullen swallows hard around another mouthful of ale that threatens to go the wrong way. “But I don’t think I can do it, Varric. There are too many hard memories there. This whole mess started in Kirkwall.”

Hawke doesn’t say it out loud, but Cullen knows him well enough now to recognize that particular expression. Hawke was thinking of Anders, the mage who blew up the Chantry in Kirkwall and kick-started the wave of Circle Rebellions. Cullen bites back the comments that spring to mind, knowing that the temptation is only there due to the amount he’s been drinking. 

He remembers Anders as the bitter mage that used to follow Hawke around, who usually got into very public spats with the equally bitter elf that also followed him around. Back in Kirkwall Hawke had certainly had a type. There’d been the pirate queen and the apostate dalish mage, and Guard-Captain Aveline if memory served.   

Cullen was nothing like them. It had been a surprise when Hawke remembered who he was when they’d come across one another on the battlements. He was pretty sure he’d been just another Templar determined to throw all the mages in prison. Which he had been. 

Hearing Hawke of all people, the Champion of Kirkwall, say his name with genuine delight had been….overwhelming. 

“What do you plan to do then?  Are you still planning on going to Weisshaupt? It might not be a good idea considering what the Wardens have been getting up to.”

Hawke shrugged. “I’m not sure yet. But I need to be doing something. The world is a mess and as much as I hate to admit it, I was involved in the start of it all. The least I can do is try to minimize the damage.”

Cullen swallows hard, every thump of his heart thick and slow.  He doesn’t remember the tavern being that cold before but he can swear there is a chill in the air that touches him from forehead to heels. Hawke wants to make the world better and all he can think of is ways to make him stay, to keep him close for a little bit longer. To put off the inevitable. 

*****

The battle at Adamant was almost a relief. After being routed at Haven and nearly losing Lavellan, Cullen had felt as if he were consistently on the backfoot. Reacting instead of attacking and taking advantage of his enemies’ weaknesses instead of doing his best to create them. He could see the frustration echoed in Leliana from time to time, and Cassandra and Josephine.  In their own way they were Lavellan’s Hands the same way Leliana had served the Divine, and wouldn’t some find that blasphemous. 

In Adamant Cullen was able to stand beside the men and women he commanded, and amongst the bloodshed and the chaos he felt a moment of quiet.  Not of peace, but the still heart of a storm that rages in all directions. This he knew and understood, shouting orders pitched to be heard over the clamor of weapons clashing and the screams of the dying. The air thick with the snap of spent magic and gore as bodies fell, cut apart by swords and punctured by demon’s claws. 

There was no time to lament the loss of his abilities now that he was no longer taking the lyrium. Instead he relied on the strength of his arms and the edge of his sword, the weight of his shield heavy on his forearm and shoulder. The dance of battle was one he knew well, and he slashed at demons and corrupted Wardens, darting in and out of reach as he covered those at his flanks. 

He did not try to look for Hawke and ignored the way his heart leapt when he saw a flicker of movement in the distance that could have been a bearded man wielding an oversized broadsword. He could not afford to worry about the Inquisitor or Hawke, so he focuses on his duty and kept shouting orders. He set a group of soldiers on the front gates with the added comment that the gate was lost they condemned everyone inside to death. Next he set another group of mages to disperse all the spent magic that the demons were exuding. It was more dangerous than useful. 

Wiping the sweat from his eyes and ignoring the dull throb in his side from where one of the enemy got too close he doesn’t react when he gets word that the Inquisitor and her party feel into a giant rift. 

He doesn’t need to ask if Hawke was with her.  Of course he was, damn the man. Instead he nods and keeps throwing out orders, ignoring the way its suddenly gotten hard to breathe. The enemy isn’t beaten yet.

More blood and death find the edge of his sword. There are a few rifts that keep spewing demons. Without the Inquisitor all they can do is beat the demons back and switch out the post to keep from losing any to exhaustion. Maker’s blessing that the Archdemon flew off after the Inquisitor fell into the rift. Cullen doesn’t want to think of what might have happened if it had chosen to linger. If the messenger who comes to tell him the Venatori magister is alive if unconscious is alarmed by his grim smile, they do not show it. He orders the man bound and to have spell placed on him that would keep him asleep. 

When the tide of battle shifts and more and more of the enemy start to fall, Cullen orders that the surviving Grey Wardens be rounded up and their weapons taken. It is not his right to decide their fate but he cannot ignore what they have done. It will be for the Inquisitor to decide. As soon as she and the others with her come back. 

He hears the Inquisitor’s return before anyone can inform him, the clash of the nearby rift slamming closed is a familiar sound by now. Still his heart continues to hammer and his mouth is dry until he comes to the courtyard where the Inquisitor is rendering judgement, and he sees Hawke standing nearby. 

“Hawke.”  It is the first thing Cullen has said since the battle that hasn’t been a shout or an order bitten off in the midst of chaos. 

It should be impossible, but Hawke turns as if he heard. He is covered in blood and there is something wretched in his expression, grief and lingering fury that has carved lines around his mouth and eyes. When he sees Cullen they are subsumed by relief and Cullen doesn’t realize he is moving until Hawke reaches out and slides a gauntlet covered hand behind his head to pull him close. The kiss is a mere press of lips but with it Cullen can breathe again, can feel his heart finally start slowing down as the panic slides away. 

Now there is only exhaustion and the familiar press of Hawke’s lips, the sharp curve of the gauntlet’s metal edges pressing against the back of his head. It occurs to him as he breathes Hawke in and ignores the Inquisitor’s muttered question and Dorian’s laughing response, that he might be in trouble. 

*****

Cullen is taking another long swallow of his ale, he will have to flag one of the barmaids down soon at the rate he is going when Varric shouts, “If it isn’t our resident spirit. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you around, Cole.”

There is no reason to feel alarmed, but that does not stop Cullen from hastily swallowing the ale and turning, a tad too fast judging from the way the room begins to spin.  Ever since the Inquisitor had taken steps to help Cole go back to the spirit he’d been before...whatever had been done to him, Cole had seemed take a more fixated approach to helping people with their pain.  Or so the Inquisitor had said, looking somewhat uncomfortable about her phrasing. 

Needless to say Cullen has caught glimpses of Cole in action often enough that he knows, heart pounding and belly clenched tight, that Cole isn’t here to socialize. 

When he turns his fears are proven correct when he sees Cole standing behind him and a little to the left, staring at him from beneath the brim of his hat with wide, glazed blue eyes. The spirit ignores Varric’s greeting beyond a quick flick of his eyes before looking once more to Cullen. “I try to whisper but the pain does not hear me.”

The spike of fear that goes through him is enough to stop his breath. Cole twitches as well as if he felt it too. Cullen tries to stand but he cannot seem to make his legs move the right way, how much did he have to drink, and Cole keeps talking. “The pain is deep and I cannot take it. That is not the way. Deep down it flows with its dark roots to your heart.” His glazed eyes turn to Hawke, who has reached out to keep Cullen from falling. 

Seeing the direction of his gaze Cullen starts to shake. “Cole, don’t.”

“He knows he isn’t good enough. Too weak to stand beside him, too broken from old hurts and always the lyrium fills his mind. Only the bird eases the pain but one day it will fly free. It will leave and then there will only be the pain.” Cole blinks and his eyes clear, once more bright and otherworldly. He keeps looking at Hawke. “The pain will not hear me. It will not answer to me.”

Cullen doesn’t see him leave. One blink and the spirit is gone and Cullen is left with a pocket of silence at their table while everyone stares. Shame is crawling up the back of his throat, thick with bile and an aching sick fury. He refuses to look at Hawke behind him or any of the others. The weight of their eyes is a palpable feeling and Cullen wants to sink underneath the table, or drink all the ale he can get his hands on until he can forget what just happened, bury it under a blur of alcohol and nausea come morning. 

Instead he finds his way to his feet, shrugging off Hawke’s hand that was still on his shoulder. He wavers once he’s finally standing and for a brief moment he thinks about turning and wishing everyone a good night before what’s left of his dignity kicks in and he simply walks away. 

Hawke doesn’t let him get very far. 

Cullen hears the door of the tavern open and close behind him as he walks, and the footsteps that follow. It is beyond Cullen to turn around and face Hawke now, or possibly ever, so he keeps walking.  Without thinking he traces the path back to his office, he wants the familiar surroundings more than he wants to escape from Hawke’s no doubt uncomfortable prodding. 

By the time he pushes the door open the climb up the stairs and the chilly night air has left him somewhat sober. Too late to stop Cole from dragging his guts out for everyone to see, but soon enough to wallow in the embarrassment of what was coming. Truly spectacular timing. 

Cullen immediately goes to stand behind his desk and he is not ashamed of wanting the barrier. He presses a hand to his chest and misses the sturdy armor he’d forsaken for the evening. It is a struggle to remember that Cole meant well, that he was just following his nature as a spirit of Compassion. In his explanations Solas had failed to truly explain what that might mean for those Cole chose to ‘help’. Or maybe he hadn’t so much failed, as exercised a particular choice of words. That sounded like Solas. 

When Hawke shuts the door behind him Cullen clenches his hands into fists before deliberately releasing them. “Hawke…”

“Wait,” Hawke holds up a hand to stop him, clearly conflicted. “Before you say anything, I’m sorry that you had to go through that. I know Cole meant well, but that couldn’t have been easy. And if I were a better man I would let you hide away and lick your wounds long enough to recover from having the rug pulled out from under you.”

Cullen clenches his teeth so hard he can feel the ache traveling through his jaw and down the back of his neck. It takes effort to force his mouth open to say, “You are a good man.”  

Hawke’s smile is soft and worn. “I do what needs to be done.” He says. Then he takes a breath. “I know you’re worried I’ll leave.” Cullen can’t contain his flinch and Hawke pauses before continuing. “I haven’t said anything because I can’t promise that I won’t.” 

This time Cullen has to turn away and his hand presses harder against his chest, as if trying to cover a wound that has ripped him open.

“Dammit, I’m not saying it right.” There is the rough tread of Hawke’s boots on the wood floors and he joins Cullen on the other side of the desk. Cullen tries to push away, he can feel himself breaking into pieces and he doesn’t want Hawke to see it, not when Cullen knows better. Instead Hawke grabs his waist and maneuvers Cullen back, sharp enough that Cullen can’t quite keep his feet and ends up falling against his desk. Hawke’s hands on him control the fall and with a quick lift have him sitting on it. 

“Hawke-” Cullen bites out, feeling exposed and panicky now that his escape route has been stolen by being quite literally set onto his desk like a child. Hawke is blocking the way and still has his hands on Cullen’s waist and one of his legs. 

“Just listen,” Hawke snaps out, one hand tightening where it is resting on Cullen’s thigh. “I’m trying to say this right. I might leave, but not because I don’t want you or don’t think you’re good enough. You are, Cullen. You are so much stronger than you realize and I couldn’t believe my luck when you actually let me charm you out of your pants that first time.”

Cullen flushes and the truth spills out without his consent. “I didn’t know if I would ever get a second chance. I’d let the first one pass me by in Kirkwall, I wasn’t going to let the same thing happen at Skyhold.” 

Chuckling, Hawke slides his hand over to stroke across the spread fingers of Cullen’s hand where he braced himself on the desk. “I felt the same.” He gives Cullen a ‘look’ when he visibly starts. “I remember what you told me of Kinloch Hold, what it did to you.  In spite of that fear you stood against Meredith with me. You had my back when I needed you most.” He reached up to cup Cullen’s face. His ever present gauntlets were missing, long since discarded for the evening and the knife calluses dragged against Cullen’s cheekbones.  “When I saw that you were going to let me and the others walk away, I ached to throw you over my shoulder and take you with me.”

“Hawke,” Cullen groans. He clutches at Hawke’s wrist, torn between hauling him closer and pushing him away. “You don’t understand. The lyrium, I stopped taking it.”  

Corypheus was gone, but the events he set in motion were still setting off ripples in the world of Thedas, and beyond. With the monster’s passing a new fear had risen in Cullen’s heart. What if now, without the driving force of needing to stop Corypheus, Cullen truly began to fray apart? Some days it was only knowing everyone was counting on him that kept him upright and fighting through the ache in his joints and the fog in his mind. 

Cassandra thought he was a fool for being so afraid, but she didn’t understand how it called to him. A siren song that promised an end to the pain and the fever-sweats, of the clawing, aching loss. 

Hawke presses their foreheads together until their breaths mingle.  “I know, Cullen. I knew from the moment I saw you.”

It’s too good to be true and Cullen cannot contain his sob.  He tightens his grip on Hawke’s wrist and clutches at his shoulder with the other. “How,” he asks, voice thick and heart beating too fast. “How could you know?”

“I recognized the signs.” One hand curls around the back of Cullen’s neck and draws him down until his face is tucked against Hawke’s neck. Cullen does not fight, more than eager to hide his face and the way his breath keeps hitching in his chest. “Carver….after what happened in Kirkwall he left the Templars. Merrill has been keeping an eye on him and keeping me updated.” He sighs. “The symptoms I’ve seen from you are the same ones that Carver has been experiencing.”

“So you knew from the start,” Cullen says, still hiding his face. 

“I was never planning to say something unless you did,” Hawke admits. “Clearly you didn’t want anyone to know and it was obvious you were handling it on your own. I knew you would tell me when you were ready.”

“I don’t deserve you.” Cullen shakes his head when Hawke stiffens. Cullen wraps his arms around him when he would have stepped back, holding him close. “I want you. You are quite literally my dream come true and I keep waiting to wake up. I keep telling myself this can’t last. After everything I’ve done, everything I’ve failed at, having you seems to good to be true. I spend every day afraid the dream is going to end.”

With a growl Hawke steps back, hands landing on Cullen’s shoulders to hold him in place. The glare that Hawke turns on him dries up any protests before they can leave his tongue. “You are the Commander of the Inquisition’s army. Every victory can be laid at your feet just as much as the Inquisitor’s. You did it in spite of your past mistakes, and no longer taking lyrium.” Recognizing the look on Cullen’s face he cuts him off. “Could someone else have done it? Yes, but it was you.  You stepped up and made the hard choices, made sure the Inquisitor had the army she needed to stop Corypheus.”

Cullen fights back the all too familiar burn of unshed tears behind his eyes. “Hawke,” he says helplessly, wanting to fight and push back, even as he eagerly soaks up the praise. 

Hawke takes his face in both hands and claims Cullen’s mouth in a searing kiss. Cullen opens up to it and lets the heat of Hawke’s desire sweep over him until the need to breathe pulls them apart. Hawke leans back with a laugh, his thumbs stroking over Cullen’s cheekbones. “Back to what I was saying. If I leave, and that is a big ‘if’, I am coming straight back to you.” He leans in and there are the wolf’s eyes shining over a flash of teeth. “You are mine, Cullen. Do you understand?”

Cullen laughs, and if it is broken and wet, Hawke only continues to wipe his thumbs over Cullen’s cheekbones as he waits for a response. “Yes,” Cullen says, feeling as if he can breathe for the first time in years. “Yes, I am yours.”

“Good,” Hawke says with his wolf’s smile, and pulls him in for another kiss.


End file.
